Visions Above My Bedspread… Poem by Mark Heathcote

Let the wind take control of the tiller
let blathers change this idle weather
who am I to see those hungry dead?
Mount visions above my bedspread.
So, they wail for Forgiveness - Mercy!
But, I'm neither their judge nor direly,
their executioner, 'henceforth-be-gone.'
I am only 6 or 7 - I'm never an aeon.
Thoughts aroused, now so far-flung.
Why do they plead in a Gaelic Tongue?
With their dozen heads severed and cut off.
Thoughts accrued the anchor castoff-
hauled back, this once my - 'Bon Voyage.'